


Not a Happy Ending

by thedevilchicken



Category: Eastern Promises (2007)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble Sequence, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Canon, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 19:28:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4449335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nikolai's job hasn't ended. Kirill's has just begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Happy Ending

They never make it to the party. 

They get into Kirill’s car and for once he drives because Nikolai’s in no state to. They drive down quiet streets, ten minutes, thirty, till Nikolai realises Kirill’s driving to drive, avoiding home, avoiding his father, avoiding the inevitable. And so, because Nikolai’s whole life is a manipulation, he directs him to his flat instead. 

“They were right about me,” Kirill says, ashamed. 

Nikolai goes close, frames Kirill’s face with his hands. 

“I know,” he says. “I always knew.”

They kiss; Kirill hits him; they kiss again. Kirill doesn’t go home that night.

 

The morning after the night before, Nikolai tells him what he is. He expects a fight he can’t win in his condition; Kirill just shrugs, smiles wryly.

“So you arrested my papa to put me in his place,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

He’s wearing Nikolai’s clothes. They’re too small but that doesn’t seem to matter as they sit at Nikolai’s table, as they drink their morning coffee. Their hands brush at the coffee pot. 

“If I help you, I get a deal?” Kirill asks at last. 

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

When they leave, Nikolai can’t help but wonder if he’s underestimated him. 

 

They ask where Kirill was for his father’s arrest. 

“With a girl,” Nikolai says. “A blonde. Pretty. Rides a motorcycle.”

Some of them have seen Anna around; there’s just enough truth there to make the story plausible. Because there’s no proof of Kirill’s involvement, because they think he obeyed his father despite the whispers in dark corners, there are no complaints. Kirill takes his father’s place, temporarily. 

After it’s done, they sit together. Kirill drinks because Kirill always drinks. 

“What if I can’t do this?” Kirill says. 

Nikolai presses his mouth to Kirill’s throat. “You can do this,” he says. 

 

For a week, he watches Kirill struggle, watches him in his suit, tie, slicked back hair, uncomfortable but professional. He watches through meetings, as Kirill drinks, as Kirill stumbles. 

Second week, after hours, he takes him to his flat to make it easier; scotch at the table not vodka, speaking English. When Nikolai kisses him, Kirill tries to pull away; Nikolai holds on till Kirill breaks and wraps his arms around him, tight, injuries still fresh enough that pressure hurts. 

They kiss in bed, fumble; Kirill’s too drunk for more but wants it. Nikolai tells himself that he does, too. 

 

A week of drunken kisses after hour, in Nikolai’s flat where prying eyes can’t see. A week of fingers in hair full of styling product, fingers plucking open buttons in the lamplight, Kirill’s mouth that tastes of whiskey over vodka. A week of nights when Kirill starts to panic once he’s hard and Nikolai pulls back, slows down.

“Don’t you hate yourself?” Kirill asks. 

Nikolai turns Kirill’s face to him, thumb brushing cheekbone; he kisses him slowly, not quite chastely, rests their foreheads down together. 

“I don’t hate myself for this,” he says. “I don’t hate you for it, either.”

 

Once Semyon’s sentenced, there’s predictable unrest. Kirill, serious, stern though that’s not his nature, takes complete control with his father’s blessing; the fact the child’s still living is a secret. Semyon thinks she’s dead. 

They’re in the restaurant when dissent strikes; Kirill only pauses momentarily before he breaks a glass on the dissenter’s face. Nikolai shouldn’t feel proud but does because this isn’t really Kirill. He’s just doing what he needs to do.

After, they go to Kirill’s room. There’s glass in his hand so Nikolai cleans it, dresses it.

“Stay,” Kirill says. He’s surprised to find he wants to.

 

“Prove it,” Kirill says.

Semyon was sentenced last week; he’s drinking even more since then but doesn’t let the others see. 

“If you’re like me, prove it.”

Nikolai sighs. “Haven’t I done enough?”

Kirill lowers his glass, spills vodka on Nikolai’s table.

“You’re a cop. Is this part of the act?”

“It’s not.”

“ _Prove it_.”

He knows how. 

He stands, brushes his fingers over Kirill’s hair though he flinches away. He goes down on his knees, kneels on stars and Kirill understands. 

Jeans pulled down, Nikolai takes him in his mouth. They both know it’s not just for the job. 

 

The work continues. Nikolai can’t risk physical notes so he’s taking them all in his head. 

A month now since Semyon’s arrest, everything’s opening up. They weren’t naive enough to think Semyon controlled it all; there are others, higher, trails leading to Russia, leading everywhere. If nothing else, Nikolai wants to stop them trading girls like cattle. 

“I can’t do this,” Kirill says, one night. He means it, drunk as he is. 

“You know the alternative.” The alternative is arrest. Kirill was born to this but wasn’t born _for_ it. “I can’t let you go.” 

He wouldn’t if he could.

 

Dinner at the restaurant: Kirill laughs, jokes, but it’s a cover-up nobody sees but Nikolai. 

After dinner they go out, business but there’s drinking. They end up at Nikolai’s but Kirill’s not as drunk as usual. When they kiss, he’s actually present. 

“Take your clothes off,” Kirill says. “That’s an order.”

Orders are strange these days, authority subjective. Nikolai undresses anyway, strips naked; Kirill watches, then touches. Nikolai lets him. 

“Do me like you did that whore,” Kirill says, hands and knees on Nikolai’s bed. 

He pushes in, slick, slow, hard. He wants it just as much as Kirill does. 

 

Two weeks later, he has a name for the contact for the girls back in Russia. They’re getting closer, but they’re not there yet. 

“How much longer?” Kirill asks, at the restaurant, over lunch. He looks relaxed but Nikolai can tell he’s wound up tight just like he always is. 

“A couple of months,” he says, not quite lying. 

“Six?”

“Maybe six.”

“A year?”

Kirill clenches his jaw. The subject changes. 

He drinks too much that night; Nikolai’s there when the doctors pump his stomach. Kirill smiles at him afterwards and Nikolai tells himself he didn’t mean to do it. 

 

Kirill’s working the next day, pale, calling it flu. Nobody knows he visited the hospital. 

There’s business, brandy cases, cigarettes; Nikolai deals with other import-export, drugs, knowing the authorities will seize them, make it look good. There’s always more names, more contacts, more deals. There’ll always be more. He knows Kirill knows; he can see it. 

Late that night, he takes Kirill to his room upstairs and locks the door behind them, strips him naked then himself. He kisses him; Kirill slaps him; he kisses him again. 

When they fuck, he wishes he could tell him it’s all worth it. 

 

Nikolai is drunk. 

It’s an accident. He has a drink alone in the restaurant then two, three, five. Kirill drives him home. 

“Nikolai,” Kirill says. “Kolya.”

“That’s not my name.”

Kirill laughs but Nikolai’s serious, even when Kirill drags him into the bedroom. He’s serious when Kirill gets down on his knees, sucks him messily because he’s never done it before. It’s not bad, just inexact. 

Kirill washes his mouth with vodka, dips fingertips into the glass, covers the cross at Nikolai’s chest to lick it off. 

“Kolya.”

“That’s not my name.”

“Don’t tell me till it’s over,” Kirill says. 

 

He walks into the bathroom; Kirill watches from bed. 

He pisses, washes hands, sees himself in mirrors above the sink. He’s nude, sees stars at his shoulders, marks on fingers as soap washes away. 

Nikolai Luzhin exists, serving life in Siberia. Some tattoos are copies, though he’s done similar things. He’s made himself what he needs to be. 

Kirill joins him there, leans in, his arms around him familiar. 

The tattoos are his life’s work, keys to open doors. But under Kirill’s hands they’re something else entirely. 

He’d like to peel them all away. He wonders what would be left. 

 

Kirill must have family in Russia but they don’t stay with them. They’re in a hotel, nice, better than Nikolai’s flat, his room next door to Kirill’s. They’re there for three days, three meetings. 

He’s spent most of his life in Russia, moving, undercover. He’s very good at what he does. Kirill was born here but he’s better off away; he runs his mouth in a club and there’s a knife fight Kirill can’t win. Nikolai leaves the knife in someone’s shoulder. 

In the hotel, he listens to Kirill breathe in the dark. Their work is going to kill him. 

 

They’re still in Moscow when the Chechens come for Kirill. 

Nikolai returns from meeting his handler, finds him bloody on the floor; he reacts before the attacker can pull his gun. His arm around a neck: he’s not sorry when he hears it crack.

Their contacts will disappear the body but Kirill will owe them. Nikolai watches their doctor stitch him, sees bruises, knows what he has to do because Kirill will always be a target. He’s not weak, he’s _vor_ by birth, but he’s made poor choices. 

If his next move seems a little desperate, it’s because it is. 

 

“Do you mean it?”

Nikolai nods. “I mean it,” he says. To an extent, he does. To an extent, it’s true.

Kirill’s fucking buoyant, but that’s the plan. Nikolai lets him scheme in evenings when they’re alone, listens to him plan who he wants to be and what he wants to do, where he wants to do it. Two weeks, three, it’s all he talks about while Nikolai’s working. He’s planning for both of them, together, doesn’t realise. 

He’s talking to the others behind Kirill’s back, telling truths they’ve hidden, implicating him but not himself. Kirill doesn’t suspect a thing. 

 

“I’ll take care of it,” Nikolai says, dragging Kirill from the restaurant, bleeding, beaten. He throws him into the car boot; the others go inside to wash their hands of blood. 

He’s supposed to kill him; they’ll all believe he did. Instead, he takes him to the British police. he tells them, while Kirill bleeds, that they found out he’s a queer. He tells them he must disappear. 

When Kirill looks at him, he knows the truth’s sunk in. They won’t leave together; he’s leaving alone. 

“I trusted you,” Kirill says. 

If it feels like betrayal, it’s because it is. 

 

The police debrief Kirill. Nikolai’s there for part of it, hidden behind two-way glass, listening though he should leave. When he’s sure Kirill will be safe, not charged, deal honoured, he steps into the room. 

“Bastard,” Kirill says, still bloody, lacking venom. 

“Goodbye, Kirill,” he says, and nothing else. There’s no way to say he’s sorry, or explain. Kirill will understand or he won’t. 

Officers try to stop him as he stands; Nikolai waves them off. He expects a strike but Kirill kisses him, hot, deep, desperate, like they’ve never done in public. _Then_ he hits him. 

He deserves it. 

 

Even when it was about Kirill it wasn’t about Kirill. He was only ever his way in. 

Everyone thinks Kirill’s dead. The papers mention a body on the bank of the Thames, a fabrication but they think it’s him. That’s how Nikolai Luzhin takes a step higher, confirmed in his position, takes Kirill’s place. He dealt with the problem, he’s trusted, he’s a better _vor_ than Kirill ever was. They don’t know he’s not a _vor_ at all. 

It wasn’t about Kirill; this is the job. But sometimes Kirill’s all he thinks about. At night, he wonders where he is. 

 

The first year is the hardest, letting business continue, because every decision he makes affects a life. The Georgian girls aren’t there long before they’re rescued but others aren’t so lucky. Who knows what damage the heroin does. But he does what he’s told because this is what he does. 

The second year’s easier, the third easier still. He has a string of girlfriends, pretty, blonde. Business booms, and all the time he’s feeding names and dates to his handlers. They’ll keep him in forever if he lets them. 

Time passes. It’s easier but he never lets it be easy. 

 

New York, year four. A restaurant after hours. The meeting’s there; he steps inside and Kirill is at a table, typing. 

“Who’s he?” he asks, gestures. 

“The accountant,” the owner says. “Queer, but he does good work. Discreet.”

While the owner gets drinks, Nikolai goes over. he puts his hands on the table; Kirill eyes the tattoos before he finally looks up. 

“Leave,” Nikolai says. “Before anyone else recognises you.” 

He wants to say more, wants Kirill to speak; neither thing happens. Kirill leaves. He looks different; he looks the same. 

After the meeting, he asks for the accountant’s address. 

 

When he can get away, he gets away. He takes a cab to the address. He knocks. He waits. He doesn’t know what to expect. 

Kirill lets him into the apartment. It’s not much, full of clothes and bottles, but more than Nikolai had in London. Kirill’s gone legit, new name, new identity, does books now. All his shirts have long sleeves. It’s wise to keep the tattoos hidden. 

They don’t speak. No _how are you_ , nothing. Kirill kisses him hard, they go to bed, they fuck. 

When Nikolai leaves, silent, he wishes he’d had the strength to stay away. 

 

The new agent reminds Nikolai of himself. He’s younger, thirties, only a couple of tattoos but it’s enough that he can take him as a driver. 

The new agent has ambition, like Nikolai used to long ago. Their stories are similar, cop father killed by the _vory v zakone_. Nikolai says he’ll teach him everything he knows, and tries to. 

It’s harder after New York. His Moscow contacts want to run girls to the States; he sets it up, sets _them_ up, but he’s tired. He thinks maybe it’s time. 

When he gives them the girls, they’ll get him out. 

 

He’s seen Anna over the years, on her bike or with the girl. They sometimes exchange pleasantries. Maybe the others think the child is his. 

The night they fake his death he goes to her. She doesn’t really know the situation and her mother doesn’t like him but offers him tea anyway. The child Kirill didn’t kill is asleep upstairs. 

He gives them money they try to refuse but he insists. 

“If you don’t want it, save it for her,” he says. That, at least, they understand. 

When he leaves, he leaves for good. He won’t be seeing London again. 

 

Typically, Kirill doesn’t close his blinds at night; Nikolai can see into the bedroom from across the street. He can see the stars at his shoulders once he’s taken off his clothes. His body’s still familiar, though it’s been another year. 

The man he’s with has no tattoos at all under his business suit. He’s older than Kirill, shorter, rough when he fucks him but Kirill seems to like it. Maybe he doesn’t understand what Kirill’s tattoos mean and maybe that’s better, best. 

He never expected Kirill to wait and New York’s dangerous anyway. He knows he shouldn’t have come. 

 

He’ll move on now, he thinks. 

It shouldn’t be hard but it is, finding a job with his new identity, as Aleksandr instead of Nikolai. He never told Kirill his real name. He probably never will. 

He finds work in private security, probably because of the tattoos he can’t keep hidden. For three months he wears a uniform, works nights in a hospital, does what he’s told, then another job comes up. He drives a car, wears a gun under his jacket, never fires. 

He dates an American girl who thinks tattoos are sexy. Sometimes he wonders why he left.

 

His girlfriend says he should marry her. He leaves her instead. 

Boston doesn’t feel like home but he’s not sure where home is. After a while, he consults for the Boston PD on the side, keeps his hand in with the gossip though he’d told himself he’d get out and stay out; maybe the FSB would take him back, back to Russia, back to who he was before he went to London. 

There are only two alternatives, he thinks: go back or make this work. 

He quits his job and he leaves Boston. There’s just one stop before he decides. 

 

He shaves his head on the train, leaves half an inch, stuffs his suit into the bin and changes. He barely knows his reflection so that’s a good start. 

It’s four hours to New York, restless, arriving after dark. He pulls on gloves and scarf and coat; he’s used to cold, pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt and shoulders his bag. He walks for a while, deliberating, then he knocks on Kirill’s door. 

“Nikolai,” he says, surprised. 

“Aleksandr,” he replies. 

“You’re out?”

“I’m out.” 

Kirill pauses. “Come in,” he says. 

They go inside together. There’s a lot to say. 

 

He stays the night. 

They order food; Kirill doesn’t drink, goes to meetings. He seems happy, smiles, calls him _Sasha_ like he’s teasing. 

When they take off their clothes in the bedroom, it’s not teasing. Nikolai’s hesitant so Kirill laughs, presses his mouth to his. They lie down, stars pressed to stars, Kirill’s mouth and hands on him. This is who Kirill is without his papa’s expectations. He doesn’t hate himself for wanting Nikolai inside him. 

“I want to live somewhere warm,” Nikolai says, after, while Kirill, plays with his shaved hair. 

Kirill doesn’t hesitate. “Let’s try Florida,” he says. 

 

The name on Kirill’s passport’s Ivan Petrov but Nikolai still calls him by his name in private. 

Miami’s tough when Nikolai has to hide his tattoos but they’re useful sometimes; he’s a bodyguard for a very rich man. Kirill’s a self-employed accountant, dull but he has a head for figures. They earn well. Life is good. Nikolai enjoys the sun. 

They live together. It’s easier than expected, watching sports on the couch, cooking, domestic; they’re both older now and Nikolai makes sure the blinds are closed at night. 

Kirill only calls him _Kolya_ when they’re fucking, a reminder of the violence that’s brought them here. Nikolai’s done so many things he should regret. Skin on skin with Kirill, in him, breathless, names on lips that are theirs and not, he regrets absolutely nothing. 

They kiss, then they sleep.

It’s only not a happy ending because this is not the end.


End file.
